http://tiny.cc/qlAbw
Harper's New Monthly Magazine
December, 1894
THE ART OF SELF-DEFENCE.
He was fairly tall, broad-shouldered, and heavy-limbed, and he had a general appearance of muscularity that created a favorable impression as he strode up to the bar at the Imperial Palace Hotel in Wildcat City, Montana. That is to say, it would have created a favorable impression if it had been properly backed up by his attire; but his clothes were of a kind that no well-regulated Wildcatter could endure. They were store clothes, cut in the fashion of Chicago, and they proclaimed him a tenderfoot. He carried a good-sized grip-sack, which he deposited in front of the bar. Then he turned, and gently elevating the brim of his hat by a dexterous fillip with his second finger, he said, in confident tones,
"Gentlemen, step up and nominate your poison."
Sago Bill looked gravely at Old Missouri, as one who should say, "What is this?" Then they both hitched up their pistol-holsters and led the entire delegation to the bar. Not a word was said until the empty glasses were replaced on the damp counter. That being done, Old Missouri looked calmly at the newcomer and said,
"Stranger, I reckon you're new to these parts."
"Right you are, pard," said the tenderfoot, whose manner of speech was certainly "tough" enough to satisfy the most captious critic.
"An' might I go so fur as to enquire whar you come from?" continued Old Missouri, with great urbanity.
"Sure, Mike," was the brisk reply. "I come from the core o' the world, Chicago."
"An' wot's your game?"
"Well, here's my business card."
With that the stranger handed to Old Missouri a bit of pasteboard, on which were printed the words "Prof. Jim Blakely, champion middle-weight of America." Old Missouri read the card gravely, and said,
"I reckon from this here that you're a fightin'gent."
"You bet your best boots I am," answered the Professor. "I've knocked out the whole gang East and West, and now I'm a-confinin' of my attention to edicatin' other fellows. That's why I'm called Perfesser."
"An' you've come here—"
"To teach the manly art o' self-defence. I guess there ain't no part o' the country where a man needs to know how to put up his hands more'n he does right out here."
"S'posin' you was to give us a specimen o' your game right now," suggested Sago Bill, while Old Missouri nodded in solemn approval.
"All right, my son," said the Professor, opening his bag and pulling out a set of boxing gloves. "Will some gent oblige by puttin' on a pair o' these?"
Yellow Jake accommodated the Professor, who had taken off his coat and pulled on his gloves.
"Put up your hands," he said, and Jake obeyed, only to receive a stinging blow between the eyes.
"You want to look out fur them." said the Professor, "an' get your hands in the way so as to stop 'em."
Yellow Jake held his hands before his face, and the Professor jovially punched him in the spot known to the elect as "the wind." That made Jake angry, and he hit out wildly, only to be thumped viciously.
"Hole on!" remarked Old Missouri. "The specimen are puffickly satisfactory. Now, Perfesser, d'ye see this?"
And Old Missouri pulled out his "gun."
"Yes," said the Professor, somewhat dubiously.
"Waal," continued Old Missouri, "it are loaded with seven cartridges, an' now [click, click] it are cocked, an' now it are p'inted at your head."
"Don't," said the Professor; "it might go off."
"That are so," admitted Old Missouri; "it might. Now take off them gloves."
"What?"
"Take 'em off. That's a good boy. Now go over yonder an' face that door. Now slug it the way you slugged Y'aller Jake."
Old Missouri stood a little to one side of the Professor, with the "gun" pointed at his head. The pugilist struck out modestly.
"That don't go," said Missouri. "Hit 'er harder, Perfesser, or I'll pull."
The Professor hit harder, and the blood flowed from his knuckles.
"Harder an' quicker," said Missouri. And for ten minutes he kept the unfortunate Professor pounding away at the heavy oak door, till his hands were bruised and cut dreadfully.
"Now, my son—I b'lieve that's wot you called me—you pack them playthings away into your grip, an' you climb right out o' here on the fust stage," said Old Missonri, impressively. "An' w'en you want to teach the art o' self-defence, as you call it, in this part o' the country, you carry one o' these. It'll beat four o' them every time."
And the Professor hurried back to Chicago.
Harper's New Monthly Magazine
December, 1894
THE ART OF SELF-DEFENCE.
He was fairly tall, broad-shouldered, and heavy-limbed, and he had a general appearance of muscularity that created a favorable impression as he strode up to the bar at the Imperial Palace Hotel in Wildcat City, Montana. That is to say, it would have created a favorable impression if it had been properly backed up by his attire; but his clothes were of a kind that no well-regulated Wildcatter could endure. They were store clothes, cut in the fashion of Chicago, and they proclaimed him a tenderfoot. He carried a good-sized grip-sack, which he deposited in front of the bar. Then he turned, and gently elevating the brim of his hat by a dexterous fillip with his second finger, he said, in confident tones,
"Gentlemen, step up and nominate your poison."
Sago Bill looked gravely at Old Missouri, as one who should say, "What is this?" Then they both hitched up their pistol-holsters and led the entire delegation to the bar. Not a word was said until the empty glasses were replaced on the damp counter. That being done, Old Missouri looked calmly at the newcomer and said,
"Stranger, I reckon you're new to these parts."
"Right you are, pard," said the tenderfoot, whose manner of speech was certainly "tough" enough to satisfy the most captious critic.
"An' might I go so fur as to enquire whar you come from?" continued Old Missouri, with great urbanity.
"Sure, Mike," was the brisk reply. "I come from the core o' the world, Chicago."
"An' wot's your game?"
"Well, here's my business card."
With that the stranger handed to Old Missouri a bit of pasteboard, on which were printed the words "Prof. Jim Blakely, champion middle-weight of America." Old Missouri read the card gravely, and said,
"I reckon from this here that you're a fightin'gent."
"You bet your best boots I am," answered the Professor. "I've knocked out the whole gang East and West, and now I'm a-confinin' of my attention to edicatin' other fellows. That's why I'm called Perfesser."
"An' you've come here—"
"To teach the manly art o' self-defence. I guess there ain't no part o' the country where a man needs to know how to put up his hands more'n he does right out here."
"S'posin' you was to give us a specimen o' your game right now," suggested Sago Bill, while Old Missouri nodded in solemn approval.
"All right, my son," said the Professor, opening his bag and pulling out a set of boxing gloves. "Will some gent oblige by puttin' on a pair o' these?"
Yellow Jake accommodated the Professor, who had taken off his coat and pulled on his gloves.
"Put up your hands," he said, and Jake obeyed, only to receive a stinging blow between the eyes.
"You want to look out fur them." said the Professor, "an' get your hands in the way so as to stop 'em."
Yellow Jake held his hands before his face, and the Professor jovially punched him in the spot known to the elect as "the wind." That made Jake angry, and he hit out wildly, only to be thumped viciously.
"Hole on!" remarked Old Missouri. "The specimen are puffickly satisfactory. Now, Perfesser, d'ye see this?"
And Old Missouri pulled out his "gun."
"Yes," said the Professor, somewhat dubiously.
"Waal," continued Old Missouri, "it are loaded with seven cartridges, an' now [click, click] it are cocked, an' now it are p'inted at your head."
"Don't," said the Professor; "it might go off."
"That are so," admitted Old Missouri; "it might. Now take off them gloves."
"What?"
"Take 'em off. That's a good boy. Now go over yonder an' face that door. Now slug it the way you slugged Y'aller Jake."
Old Missouri stood a little to one side of the Professor, with the "gun" pointed at his head. The pugilist struck out modestly.
"That don't go," said Missouri. "Hit 'er harder, Perfesser, or I'll pull."
The Professor hit harder, and the blood flowed from his knuckles.
"Harder an' quicker," said Missouri. And for ten minutes he kept the unfortunate Professor pounding away at the heavy oak door, till his hands were bruised and cut dreadfully.
"Now, my son—I b'lieve that's wot you called me—you pack them playthings away into your grip, an' you climb right out o' here on the fust stage," said Old Missonri, impressively. "An' w'en you want to teach the art o' self-defence, as you call it, in this part o' the country, you carry one o' these. It'll beat four o' them every time."
And the Professor hurried back to Chicago.
